


Reaching Home

by kethni



Category: The Bill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 05:18:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3237740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kethni/pseuds/kethni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the prequel to Cartref.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reaching Home

 

Craig stares out of the window. The world outside reflects his mood. He is afloat in a sea of dirty grey concrete, and chewing gum stained tarmac. The gutters are overflowing with rubbish that swirls in the eddies of filthy water, the crumbling brick walls are covered in graffiti, and strips of cardboard are nailed up over broken windows.

 

Craig feels old, soiled, and so very tired. The too recent memory of Sun Hill sits in his chest, seeping poison along his arteries, rotting in his heart.

 

London seems now so decrepit and ruined that he can’t stand it. The rats, the garbage, the constant whining of people too stupid, or too pig-headed, to take sensible precautions to help themselves.

 

Craig has decided he needs a total change. Somewhere clean and beautiful; somewhere, that it is not considered acceptable to use foul language in everyday conversation; somewhere a very long way from London.

 

Somewhere a very long way from Luke Ashton. There, said it.

 

The man seated in front of Craig shuffles the papers on his desk. Craig turns and looks at him. He smiles nervously at Craig and continues to shuffle the papers, as if searching for something to distract himself.

 

“Well, Sergeant,” he says eventually. “I’ve reviewed your file. It’s very impressive, extremely impressive, in fact.”

 

“Thank you, Sir,” Craig says, emotionlessly.

 

“But um, the thing is, we really would hate to lose you. Obviously if you decide to transfer to another force that’s your decision; but the Met is the finest in the country, and if you stay here, I’m sure you have a glittering future ahead.”

 

“I don’t want to stay in London.”

 

“Sergeant.” He leans forward and smiles sympathetically. “I understand that your injuries were severe, and your recuperation was very difficult. That you suffered depression afterward is entirely natural, and certainly will have no bearing on any promotion board you go to.”

 

Craig closes his eyes. This is all too difficult, and he has no energy for debates or discussions.

 

“I don’t want to stay in London,” he says again, opening his eyes. “I don’t need a placement in London. I just need some leave to find another placement.” 

 

“All right, Sergeant. I won’t assign you another placement for the moment, but if you haven’t found another position within two weeks, than I will have to.”

 

“Thank you, Sir.”

 

***

 

Craig’s parents are initially very pleased to see him. He has not visited them in months and, although it would never occur to them to come out and say it, they have missed him.

 

“He’s not happy,” his mother says quietly.

 

“He’s alright.” His father does not pause in filling his pipe to answer her.

 

“He’s not, he’s very unhappy about something,” she insists.

 

“Bloody hellfire, woman! Will you leave the lad alone? It’s no wonder he turned out a nancy-boy with you going on about ‘feelings’ all the damn time!”

 

“He’s talking about coming back to the Welsh police.”

 

“And? Why shouldn’t he?”

 

“Don’t you think it’s a bit sudden? And he seemed to be enjoying big city policing,” she objects.

 

“He’s a grown man, let him alone.”

 

***

 

Craig goes down to the pub on Saturday night. It is the same pub that his father has been going to for forty years, the same pub that Craig first visited on his eighteenth birthday.

 

He is vaguely surprised at the warmth of his welcome. From the tenor of the conversation it is obvious that his father has, in his own way, been boasting about him. Being beaten up protecting a prisoner is, it seems, a thoroughly ‘manly’ way to be injured on duty.   

 

Craig sits in the corner of the pub, politely tolerating well-wishers and family friends, and drinks himself into a stupor. At last orders, the barman and a neighbour steer him back to his parents’ house.

 

“Oh dear,” his mother says in embarrassment. “This isn’t like him at all.”

 

“Wouldn’t have been so bad if he looked like he was enjoying himself,” the barman muses. “But he looked as miserable as sin all night.”

 

***

 

On the following Tuesday, Craig prepares to drive for an interview some miles away. His interview is on Wednesday morning, so he has decided to stay over in the nearest town.

 

As he drives away his mother answers the telephone.

 

“I’m sorry? Oh, I beg your pardon, my English isn’t very good. Who were you looking for? You’ve just missed him I’m afraid.”

 

“Who is it?” Craig’s father bellows.

 

She covers the mouthpiece, switches to Welsh, and calls back.

 

“It’s an Englishman who wants to talk to Craig.”

 

***

 

The air is different.

 

Craig has stopped, parked the car, and walked into a nearby shop for a sandwich. The air here is pure and clean. There is a very tiny hint of salt from the seaside miles away. Craig sits in the field off the road, eats his sandwich and drinks a carton of orange juice. So quiet, so still, it is easy to imagine that there is nothing bad anywhere in the world.

 

Craig sits in the long grass, watching butterflies skipping from flower to flower. He turns at the sound of a slight swish-swish behind him.

 

A tomcat is stalking through the grass after the butterflies. It is round faced and tiny, and it stares at Craig curiously before returning its attention to the butterflies. Craig gently strokes the cat’s fur; it is warm from the sun, and ripples under his hand. The cat purrs and rubs against Craig’s arm.

 

“Nice to know I can at least make one male happy,” Craig says with a smile.

 

***

 

The town is small but busy, and Craig is briefly distracted by the array of young men in shorts sauntering around the shops. Everything is so bright and happy, the buildings gleam, and even the streets are clean and fresh.

 

Craig follows the directions and, down a winding side street, he finds a Victorian boarding house. The proprietor, a tiny Welsh octogenarian called Miss Hughes, opens the massive oak door and peers at Craig through round, framed glasses.

 

Craig spends a pleasant evening reading in his room. He has steak with roast potatoes for his evening meal, followed by a cheese board. He returns to his room, reads for a while longer and then has the best night’s sleep he has had in almost a year.

 

***

 

The main police station is a small brick building that is not so much sprawling, as falling. Craig walks into reception, a room about as big as his office at Sun Hill, and greets the only inhabitant currently around: a very large, and clearly disreputable, grey cat. She is sprawled on the counter watching Craig out of one eye. The other eye has been lost in a fight, as has much fur, and one of her ears.

 

“Good morning,” greets a young woman coming up behind the desk. “Sugar, get off the desk.”

 

“Sugar?” Craig asks.

 

“I know.” The young woman rolls her eyes. “I’m sure that’s why she gets into so many fights.”

 

Craig smiles at her.

 

“I have an appointment with Inspector Evans?”

 

“You’re the sergeant?”

 

“That’s right,” Craig answers, showing her his insignia.

 

“And you want to work  _here_?” She asks in disbelief.

 

“I was told there was a position in a village to the south? Place called Cartref?”

 

“Well, yeah, but it’s a bit… wild and woolly. I’m Magda, by the way.”

 

“Craig Gilmore.”

 

“Nice to meet you. I’ll take you up to see the Inspector. Would you like a tea, or a coffee?”

 

“Tea would be nice.”

 

***

 

Inspector Evans is a bluff man in his fifties with a mop of sandy hair and a drooping moustache. He shakes Craig’s hand heartily, and waves at the other chair.

 

“Met Magda then?” 

 

“Er, yes, Sir. And ‘Sugar’ too.”

 

“Ha! Evil cat, that! Did she scratch you badly?” Evans asks.

 

“No,” Craig says, surprised. “I patted her head, and she just looked smug.”

 

“Royal seal of approval, eh?” Evans sniggers. “Ah tea, thank you, Magda.”

 

Magda puts a tray on the desk. Craig takes a mug; it is sunny yellow, and has a picture of a panda on it.

 

“Thank you,” Craig says politely as Magda leaves.

 

“So, you want to work with us, do you?”

 

“I’m interested, yes, Sir.”

 

“No offence, lad, but you don’t seem the type. No car chases in farm country you know.”

 

“I’m not interested in car chases, Sir,” Craig says quietly. “I enjoyed London for a while, but I’ve decided that it’s not for me. I became a police officer to help people, not to watch the same drug dealers and wife beaters come in and out every week.”

 

“It would be totally different from what you’ve done before,” Evans points out. “It’s much more of a community job. Not simply being a thief taker, though sometimes that’s necessary, but helping the society to get along. The last sergeant delivered the post for example; you would be involved in the day-to-day life of the village, and the surrounding areas. You would have to get along, possibly for months at a time without supervision. Do you think you can do that?"

 

“Yes, Sir,” Craig says, honestly.

 

“We’ll have a trial period of three months, how does that sound?”

 

“Very sensible.”

 

“Are you married?”

 

The hair prickles at the back of Craig’s neck.

 

“No.”

 

“Live-in girlfriend?” Evans says, hopefully.

 

“No, Sir,” Craig says, heavily. “I’m gay.”

 

“Oh good.”

 

Craig blinks.

 

“Sorry?”

 

“Got a young man, have you?” Evans asks, optimistically.

 

“Er no, not at the moment,” Craig says, bewildered.

 

“Oh, what a shame. Could do with a nice strapping lad to help you out. The village is running short of youngsters of all descriptions, they all go off to the city. They’re getting desperate for new blood, truth be told. We’ve been trying to get a constable as well, but we’ve had no luck. See, with two of you, one could keep an eye on all the far flung homesteads, while the other one stayed at the Station House and looked after the village.”

 

Craig opens and closes his mouth a few times.

 

“Sorry, you  _want_  me to get a boyfriend so that there’ll be someone to look after the station?”

 

Evans roars with laughter.

 

“That’s not the only reason!” He says, tears of laughter pouring down his face. “Oh, wait until I tell my wife that one!” Evans wipes his face with a surprisingly delicate little handkerchief. “The thing of it is, Sergeant, that it’s going to be cold, physically hard, work. The fires are mostly wood, so you’ll have to chop logs, you’ll be travelling miles to deliver post, investigate crimes, and that’s not even counting things like helping at harvest time. You’ll be coming home cold, dog tired, and then having to deal with cooking a meal and washing up after yourself. Having somebody there to make sure it’s warm, to greet you with a kiss and a good meal waiting for you… well, it’s little things like that which make life enjoyable.”

 

 Craig looks down at his hands.

 

“Oh, I see.”

 

“Ah,” Evans says gently. “Well you’re a young man, there’s plenty of time yet. Don’t worry about the villagers. By and large, they wouldn’t care if Martians moved in, as long as they pulled their weight. They have more pressing things to worry about. Farming can be life and death you know. Do you know much about farm animals?”

 

“Nothing, I’m afraid.”

 

“Never mind. Your Welsh is good.”

 

“It’s my first language, not that I’ve ever had complaints about my English.”

 

“Oh that’s the other thing; you’ll be the tourist board too. There are normally a few English tourists clomping about the vicinity, painting the scenery or whatnot, and there aren’t many English speakers.”

 

“Right,” Craig says, scratching his forehead. “Sounds like a challenge.”

 

“On the plus side; the accommodation is on the premises and is free, as is your heating and power.”

 

***

 

Cartref is deep in the countryside. It takes Craig almost three hours to drive there, along tiny muddy roads barely more than footpaths, and across rickety bridges that sway alarmingly. The village itself is set high on a hill, though there are many higher hills to the north.

 

This, Craig thinks, is what I call a village. Not the modern, urban posturing of calling several square miles, containing four hundred houses and three shopping complexes, a village.

 

Cartref is a tiny, old-fashioned place. There are: a church, a school, a doctor’s surgery, the Station House, a pub, a café, five shops, and a score of houses. The road is cobbled, although the roads leading from the village to the various farms are mere dirt tracks.

 

There is even a blue lamp outside the Station House; it makes Craig smile to see it.

 

Craig follows the road around and finds the little scrap of land for communal parking. There is an ancient police car parked there, and a couple of Range Rovers that have seen better days.

 

Craig parks, takes his bag from the car, and walks towards the Station House. His belongings will be delivered later. He is expecting well… to be ignored really, or possibly glared at as an intruder. Instead he gets ten feet up the street before being stopped by a young couple who greet him cheerfully and ask him if he would like to join them for a nice pot of tea in the café.

 

***

 

It takes Craig ten minutes to look in every room in the Station House. It is  _mostly_  as he expected; the tiny station proper with its one cell, the little back garden, and the attic bedroom. The new bathroom with a full size bath, overhead shower and a heated towel rail is a pleasant surprise; as is the modern and stylish kitchen. He certainly didn’t expect the solar panels, or the little generator.

 

But it is the satellite television and Internet connection that leaves him open mouthed.

 

***

 

After Craig has put away his things he has a little walk around. At about six pm, he decides to see if the pub serves food, since he can’t garner any enthusiasm for cooking.

 

He is secretly expecting the pub to fall silent as he walks in the door, in the way of old horror movies, and a chorus of ‘you ain’t from around here’.

 

What he gets are a certain amount of curious looks, a lot of welcoming smiles, and lots of free drinks once he explains that he is the new station sergeant.

 

Rhys the barman runs through the menu options with him.

 

“Lamb, salmon, or chicken. Sorry it’s not much of a choice; the van broke down and is away being fixed. I haven’t had a chance to get to the market.”

 

“Chicken would be great thanks.” Craig nods at the sign behind the bar ‘Rooms to Rent – Free Satellite and Internet ’. “I’m surprised you have satellite and the Internet around here.”

 

“We’re a test site,” Rhys explains. “Not just us mind, the whole area, right up to the next village. They’re testing for when they turn off the analogue television signals. Have to test how well the digital signals work.”

 

“Surprised you all agreed to have them turn off the transmitter,” Craig admits.

 

“Actually we’ve never been able to get television before, because of where we are. It’s wonderful! They give it to us free, and the Internet comes through the dish,” Rhys says happily. “Should have seen it. It was like the day after; everyone suddenly decided to buy computers and find out what the fuss was. The place was deserted. Anyway, I’ll go and tell her to put you some chicken on.”

 

“Thanks very much.”

 

***

 

Craig now knows  _exactly_  what Evans was getting at. He has been at Cartref for three weeks and has, once again, collapsed straight into bed without anything to eat.

 

He enjoys the work, even the exhausting bits like splitting wood, or digging tractors out of mud; and he loves the Station House, and is fond of the villagers.

 

But he is lonely. He spends almost all of every day on his own. Apart from exchanging greetings with people as he delivers the post, or taking down details of the ongoing feud between two neighbouring farms, he has very little contact with anyone.

 

Craig is a warm and nurturing person. But with his workload he hasn’t the energy to look after himself, let alone anyone else. The vague idea of sharing his life with someone else has become a painful fantasy. It's never going to happen, he tells himself, not for me.

 

Someone, Craig suspects it to be Elizabeta the schoolmistress, has clearly pegged Craig as gay, and has carefully and efficiently informed the village.

 

He has had three offers of blind dates with ‘nice young men’, mostly relatives of the person offering.

The first person to bring the matter up was the Vicar. Slightly more shocking to Craig than this surprise attempt at assistance, is the general atmosphere of ‘what a shame, nice man like you without a boyfriend’, that seems to have settled around him.

 

He wonders if this is how Miss Stafford and Miss Granger at number eleven met. Miss Stafford and Miss Granger are perhaps seventy-five years old, although they are both fairly spry, and still very attractive. They are what would have been called ‘spinsters of the parish’. They are also very much a going concern.

 

So, he asks himself night after night, why don’t I go on one of those blind dates? Or drive into the nearest city and find a club?

 

Gradually as the muggy haze in his mind dissipates the answer becomes clearer.

 

I miss Luke.

 

Plain and simple, and it pierces him like a knife.

 

***

 

Craig has been at Cartref for five weeks when Evans rings him with some excellent news.

 

“We’ve got you a constable,” he says, over the crackling line.

 

“Great!” Craig answers genuinely. If nothing else, the reduction in his workload will be a welcome relief.

 

“Not a racist are you?” Evans checks.

 

“What?” Craig asks, convinced he’s misheard.

 

“A racist. You aren’t, are you?”

 

“No!”

 

“Alright, I was just checking,” Evans says, laughing down the telephone. “Can you arrange for him to stay over at the pub? Ask the landlord to send us a price, and we’ll set up an account.”

 

“Yes Sir; thank you, Sir.”

 

“You may have to be patient with him. His language skills aren’t amazing, but he’s getting there. He starts on Monday, but I think he’s going to try and get to you sometime in the next day or so.”

 

***

 

Ifan Williams is not a good farmhand. His father despairs of him. Ifan is as easily distracted as a toddler, and has largely the same amount of skill with farm animals. He is trying, without success, to milk Maggie the nanny goat when she decides that she has had enough. She uses her hind legs to kick him smartly in the belly, leaps over the fence, and takes off down the path.

 

Ifan stumbles to his feet and sets off after her.

 

***

 

A handsome young man is hiking along the road. He is carrying a large rucksack with a rolled up sleeping mat hanging underneath, a backpacking stove tucked neatly inside, and small pans dangling from the rucksack. He is wearing denim shorts, a cotton shirt, and light socks inside his hiking boots. A baseball cap is shading his eyes, although his skin is tanned a healthy brown from hiking most of the way from London.

 

‘Tourist’, thinks Ifan, when he spots him. It is as good a judgement as Ifan is ever likely to make, and as complicated a sentiment as he can normally form.

 

Maggie charges towards the young man and then stops when he does.

 

The young man tilts his head and regards Maggie with a sort of bemused anxiety.

 

“Maggie!” Ifan calls. “Come here.”

 

“Does he,” the young man asks, and hesitates. “Does he fight?”

 

“She fights me! She kicked me right in’t belly.”

 

The young man looks at him blankly, and then edges past Maggie.

 

Maggie turns and regards Ifan.

 

“My dad will kill me! She’s got three kids need feeding.”

 

“She belongs to your household?”

 

“Yeah, my dad’s.”

 

The young man carefully reaches around and removes a coil of rope from his rucksack. He makes a neat lasso and throws it easily around Maggie’s neck. He pulls it tight, and then walks back to Ifan towing her behind him.

 

Ifan is agog.

 

“Wow!”

 

“Can I buy a sandwich from you?” The young man asks. “From your house? I’m hungry, and I don’t have time to make camp and cook.”

 

“What? Yeah! The farm is just back there. I’ll tell me mum about what you did, and I’ll get her to make you a nice lunch.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

***

 

Ifan gets a heavy thump around the ear.

 

“I’m not surprised she ran away! You pull at her like she’s a lavvy handle!” His mother says angrily. She smiles at the young man, and wipes her hands on her apron. “I don’t recognise your accent.”

 

He looks at her blankly.

 

“I’m Maisy, what’s your name?” She tries.

 

Comprehension floods his face.

 

“My-name-is-Luke-and-I-am-learning-Welsh.”

 

“Hey!” Ifan says, impressed. “He’s good, isn’t he?”

 

“Yeah, what do you normally speak?”

 

“I-am-English.” He pulls a small book from his rucksack and flicks through. “Thank you for… your… hospitality.”

 

Maisy grins hugely and puts a meaty arm around Luke’s shoulders.

 

“For an Englishman learning Welsh we can do better than a sandwich.”

 

***

 

Craig is in the garden when the tractor grinds to a halt by the Station House. He has cleared the garden and started digging it over in anticipation of having the time to sort it properly now that he will have some assistance.

 

Craig takes off his gardening gloves as he walks back inside. He changes quickly into his uniform as someone opens the front door and rings the little brass bell.

 

“Sergeant? Are you about? It’s Maisy Williams.”

 

Craig makes sure he is presentable before he goes to see her.

 

Maisy is a large woman who, Craig believes, can probably shoe horses single-handed. He is always very polite to her.

 

“Hello, Maisy, had a problem?”

 

“Hello, love. No, no problem, well nothing that giving our Ifan a new brain wouldn’t solve. Anyway to cut a long story short, Ifan messed up; nothing new there, and this lad who was passing sorted it out for him. This lad says he’s going to be a constable here and he’s been told to put his stuff in the pub. We’ve given him a proper meal back at the farm, and then we brought him up in the trailer. Ifan has taken him over to the pub to get settled in.” 

 

“Thanks, Maisy, that’s really kind of you,” Craig says, surprised.

 

“He did us a good turn, and he’s a very nice lad once you realise that he speaks better than he hears.”

 

“My boss said something about him having language problems.”

 

“He said he’d done a three week intensive course learning Welsh,” Maisy says approvingly. “Don’t get many who’d go to those lengths.”

 

“No, that’s true.”

 

“Anyway I thought I’d let you know. He said he’s going to come over once he’s had a shower. He’s hiked all the way from Wrexham and been sleeping in fields.”

 

“Goodness,” Craig says. “Well he sounds like a hardy type.”

 

“Oh yes,” Maisy grins. “And he’s got gorgeous legs!”

 

***

 

Craig changes into jeans and a t-shirt and turns the blue lamp off. He sits in the tiny, warm kitchen nursing a mug of tea until someone knocks politely at the door.

 

Craig puts down his mug and pads to the door. After all, it’s gone eight o’clock and he might as well start as he means to go on. There’s no point making the constable think he’s going to have to be in uniform twenty-four hours a day.

 

Craig unlocks and opens the door. As he does so, he steps back to turn on the main light, and so doesn’t see his visitor until he has stepped into the room.

 

Luke pushes the door shut and looks at Craig’s frozen expression.

 

“Hello, Sarge,” he says simply. “I’m not in uniform as I don’t commence for another two days, but I thought I should come and see you as soon as I got here.”

 

Craig nods mechanically.

 

“Can I put the kettle on? I’m dying for a couple of tea.”

 

Craig blinks.

 

“Couple? Wait, why are you speaking Welsh?”

 

“They told me that the language here was Welsh,” Luke says. “What do you put tea into?”

 

“A mug, or a cup,” Craig says.

 

“A cup, right. Please may I make myself a drink?”

 

“Yes, it’s though there.” Craig points vaguely in the direction of the kitchen. “Please talk English.”

 

Luke’s face falls.

 

“Am I that bad?” He asks in English.

 

“No, not at all. I just… I’m confused enough as it is without trying to cope with you suddenly speaking another language.”

 

“I see.” Luke silently makes his way into the kitchen.

 

Craig follows and finds him staring in fascination at the wood-burning stove.

 

“You look good,” Craig says weakly.

 

“Thanks, I was ill for a long time.”

 

“Were you?” Craig asks, shaken by the way his stomach twists.

 

“I have a chronic ulcer,” Luke says matter-of-factly. “They think it was stress aggravated. After the divorce, and not being able to find you, I collapsed. That’s when it was diagnosed. It’s much better now.”

 

“I had no idea.” Craig fills the kettle and puts in on the stove. “Wait! What do you mean, you couldn’t find me?”

 

“I came back, like I promised, but you’d been moved. I tried everything I could think of, but I couldn’t find out where they’d moved you. Gina wouldn’t talk to me, and you suddenly weren’t living at the same place.” Luke leans back against the wall. “I kept thinking how you must be wondering what was taking me so long. I had to have surgery because my ulcer started bleeding, and then I got a strep infection… I was in hospital for nearly thirteen months altogether.”

 

“That’s terrible,” Craig mutters. “Just terrible.”

 

“But it’s okay,” Luke says quickly. “I’m hale and hearty now, and I finally found you!”

 

Craig chews his lower lip.

 

“Luke… I… I don’t know what you mean. I didn’t expect you to come back.”

 

“But I promised.”

 

“To come back to the hospital?” Craig pulls on an oven glove, and moves the boiling kettle off the heat, putting it onto a metal stand.

 

“Yes,” Luke says, hurt. “How could you forget that?”

 

“Luke, I can remember every  _word_  that passed between us in the hospital room. If you’d said  _anything_  at all about coming back… For one thing, Gina would have ripped your head off, and for another, I would have remembered.” Craig brews two cups of tea, pours milk into them both, and pushes one towards Luke.

 

“In the  _letter_.”

 

“What letter?”

 

Luke’s lower lip starts to tremble.

 

“This isn’t funny,” he says in a choked voice.

 

Craig takes Luke by the arm and guides him into a comfortable chair in the lounge. Luke sits meekly as Craig kneels in front of him.

 

“Luke, I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

“But, but… my letter.”

 

“You wrote me a letter?” Craig asks. Luke nods. “After you saw me at the hospital?”

 

“The day after.”

 

“Where did you send it?” Craig asks gently.

 

“I wanted to take it to the hospital, but Gina wouldn’t let me. I gave it… I gave it to Cathy. She said she was going to see you.”

 

“Cathy Bradford? She never came to see me.”

 

“But she said,” Luke says, hopelessly. “She  _promised_!”

 

“She lied. She probably just threw it in the bin; you know what a malicious, homophobic bitch she was.”

 

Luke looks down at his hands.

 

“You never got it?”

 

“No.”

 

“You must have thought I didn’t care. You must have felt so bad.” Tears fill Luke’s eyes. “You must hate me. Lying in that awful bed thinking I didn’t care.”

 

“Hey, don’t cry.” Craig fetches a tissue and wipes Luke’s face. “I know now. What did you say?”

 

“I… I said, t-that I knew that I’d b-blown my chance with you, but that I was going to do everything I could to be a friend to you. That I was going to make it up to you somehow.” Luke takes a tissue and blows his nose. “I wanted to look after you, if you’d let me. I wanted to be there for you.”

 

“Oh Luke,” Craig says softly, and puts a hand to Luke’s cheek. “I bet it was a beautiful letter.”

 

“I’m sorry!” Luke sobs. “I should’ve been honest in the first place. I made such a mess of everything.”

 

He dissolves into noisy tears and pitches forward into Craig’s arms.

 

***

 

Luke wakes, he has been sleeping on an overstuffed sofa. Craig strokes his cheeks softly.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hey,” Luke answers, stretching. “Have I been asleep long?”

 

“Couple of hours. I’m sorry I upset you so much.”

 

“It was my own fault. I’m sorry I’ve caused so much disruption. You must think I’m a total idiot.” Luke sits up, and gratefully accepts the cup of hot chocolate that Craig offers.

 

“No. Can I just clarify something?”

 

“Sure,” Luke says bravely.

 

“You promised that you’d come back and… well, look after me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“But you couldn’t find me because I’d moved hospital and then house. The stress of splitting up with Kerry, and coming out, along with guilt about not being able to find me, led to an ulcer?” Craig checks.

 

“Well, I was so run down that I developed an ulcer, which was severely aggravated by the stress.”

 

“Then you got very ill, you had to have surgery because your ulcer was bleeding, and then you got an infection?”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“So, more than two years after you promised to come back, you’re here to keep your promise?” Craig asks.

 

“Well, see, I found out that this was a Welsh speaking place,” Luke says quickly. “I had to do a few weeks intensive training to get the basics. I had to organise things, and sort stuff out. Or I would have been here a month ago.”

 

“So,” Craig says carefully. “You’ve left all your friends and family, your job, learnt another language, and taken yourself off to another country in order to keep a promise to me?”

 

“It was important,” Luke says earnestly. “I thought… well when I arrived; I thought there was a chance with you. But you thought that I’d abandoned you, so you must have moved on.” Luke takes a sip of chocolate. “But I don’t regret it. I’m glad that I’m here. I hope that it’s okay with you.”

 

“You did all that for me?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Craig gently strokes the back of Luke’s hand.

 

“I missed you.”

 

“I missed  _you_.”

 

Craig leans forward and kisses Luke tenderly.

 

“What was that for?” Luke asks wonderingly.

 

“For starters.” Craig promises. “We’ll get to the good stuff later.”

 

***

 

The End

 

 

 

 


End file.
